


The Last Purple Ritual

by RobertGrey



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Fictional World, Gen, Tragedy, old english
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobertGrey/pseuds/RobertGrey
Summary: The story takes place in a fictional world generally referred as 'Purple World', where we are first introduced to the friendly community in the poorest region of the world, where the protagonist, Marcius is currently residing. We are then introduced to the High Priest Ignummon and other palace residents, among which are royal princesses Victoria and Diane.We soon learn, that a certain ritual is supposed to take place next day, where two people, a man and a woman will be chosen by the Gods to be united in a holy marriage.





	

  


_

There I stayed for a hundred years. In my heart, I promised that anyone who released me I would make rich for life. When a hundred years had passed without being released, I promised that whoever did so would be rewarded with any treasure on earth. Still no one set me free so I promised that I would offer my rescuer three wishes. After waiting yet another hundred years I became furious and swore to myself, now I will kill the man who releases me, but I will let him choose how to die.”  
The Thousand Nights and One Night  
(by David Walser and Jan Pienkowski)

_

Alabaster watched the sun lightly touching the horizon, illuminating the Purple World with its dying light. He smiled at the warmth on his face, but it was not a cunning or covetous smile; such emotions didn’t exist for Alabaster. His was a simpler mind, able to enjoy the little things in this world without any side thoughts. One could envy him and his simplicity – he could be happy for no reason other than the joy of existence itself.  
“I’m telling you guys, they are doing it again! Like they did three cycles before! If you don’t believe me, you just look at the palace in one or two sunrises, you’ll see!” spoke a nervous voice. It was Ferris, a friend of his, but at the moment he wasn’t speaking to Alabaster in particular, mostly because he never doubted the truth of what Ferris was saying.  
“So what if they do? These are slums, the worst part of town. If you want to get some free drinks or meals during the celebration, you should be in the lower city at least, and they ain’t letting likes of you and me in there anyways. What’s the point of even discussing it?” Everest cut in. He was a rather unpleasant person, always realistic, somewhat bossy and, when it suited him, rather pushy person. But somehow, without him, their group fell apart very quickly, as if he was that crazy force that held the world itself together.  
“But this time…” the Ferris sounded unsure.  
“Ye-e-es?..” inquired Everest.  
“…it could be one of us.” Ferris finished lamely, almost whispering.  
Everest started laughing. It started like an awkward cough inside him, but he ended up all shaking with contagious laughter, and even Alabaster flashed his big, kind smile, watching his merriment. After such a pause, during which Ferris looked more and more worried, Everest spoke again, still laughing dramatically, but his eyes had an evil gleam in them.  
“You need to understand a few things about life, Ferris. First,” he started to bend his fingers, “You will never be picked. Only the nobility or middle class gets picked. I sometimes think the royalty and priests made it all up, just to appease the crowd. Second,” he bent another finger “As I already said, I really doubt it’s genuine. The whole thing I mean. And I seriously think they shouldn’t make such a fuss over it. Like what does it matter even.”  
Ferris avoided meeting Everest’s gaze. Inside he was blaming himself for ever speaking about this in front of him. Everest prepared to continue, but a big white hand suddenly appeared on his shoulder.  
“That’s harsh,” Alabaster said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice for someone his size “Ferris has a dream, is it bad?”  
Everest sagged, and extended a hand towards Ferris.  
“I’m sorry, friend,” he said politely.  
Ferris just shook his hand. That was a thing with Everest – he was like a tornado, crushing everything in his path, but then he would remember that he was talking to friends and sincerely apologize – but what good does an apology to broken dreams?  
“It still could be true, you know. Even my grandma told me stories of the penultimate ritual, and how they referred to next three cycles as a ‘Golden Age’, as it was” Marcius interjected in his pleasant smoky voice. He was the most level-headed of the company, with Alabaster being way too simple-minded, Ferris too nervous and worried all the time and, of course, impetuous Everest. More than that, he was also the smartest and most talented in their group; and of all of them, only Everest had trouble admitting that openly, but deep down he knew it to be true. Marcius was so good in fact, that he didn’t belong in their group, and you could easily picture him as a wealthy merchant, honorable priest or even nobility. Yet there he was, living under the bridge in the slums with the rest of them.  
The talk went silent for a time, as each one was thinking his own thoughts.  
“I wish they were happy that they have such good friends around them,’ thought Alabaster.  
‘Should I speak more on this topic? Or let Everest speak? But will he speak? Oh bother…’ the thoughts raced through Ferris’s mind.  
‘Could it be true after all? If so do I have a chance of being chosen? Nah, that’s just crazy. I’d do a better job focusing on my work instead of useless dreaming like that...’ concluded Everest.  
‘Just what are they getting so excited about? There’s no point in contemplating this, unless you really are the chosen one,’ rationalized Marcius.  
And in the next moment they started speaking all at once, stammered and laughed. Alabaster took this opportunity to sweep his friends with his giant white hands into a crushing hug.  
“I just love you guys! You are the best, and no matter what happens, I’m sure we’re all going to be here for each other, right?” and he looked at them with his big puppy eyes, stopping for a second on each face. It was hard to ignore him, and made those who harbored dark thoughts (and who shall not be named in light of it being bad to point fingers) feel ashamed, and quickly nod their consent, smiling apologetically, as if this white giant could read their minds.  
“Hey, I know, I know! Let’s sing together!” Everest proposed, “Let’s go with our favorite, _The Sunrise_!”  
And the slums under the palace bridge became filled with happy, and maybe just a little unsteady, song, sung by four friends, and carried by the wind to nearby houses, with some people joining in. Everybody knew that one, as it was one of the oldest songs which used to be national anthem before the Golden Age, until it was replaced by _The Gods’ Favors_.  


# 

  
The Monarch’s palace was basking in last sunset lights, giving everything a yellow-brownish hue. It was built on a giant, pillar-like mountain, which, taken together with palace on top of it, as if challenging laws of physics, was heaviest at the top, thinnest at its middle and of average thickness at bottom. Huge stone and marble bridge led to the palace across canyon to the plateau, where the nobility and the upper class lived. The middle class lived mostly around them, still on plateau though. If one could not afford a house there, he automatically ended up in slums, i.e. everywhere except on plateau, with worst part of slums being located directly under the palace bridge, from where the bridge itself appeared to be a huge arc in the sky, and you could barely see the spires of the palace above the mountain only if you walked quite a distance. The spires of the palace came from a chapel on the upper levels of castle, which was proudly named ‘The Cathedral’, and because of that people often said that clergy had a better view on the canyon than the Monarch himself.  
The High Priest Ignummon the Fourth looked at the sun with joy. He knew, that the palace will transform overnight, when trusty servants will put decorations in national colors (purple, of course) from every tower, on every door, everywhere. Then the palace will awaken with the sound of trumpets, starting a special symphony which he and his servants have been preparing for many sunrises now. He already felt the invigorating energy that would penetrate the place itself tomorrow, and couldn’t help but remember each White Night of his childhood, when at the start of new cycle his father would wear fake beard and bring with him a sack full of gifts. During these White Nights he felt much the same as now, except now he was not a child anymore and was supposed to arrange the celebration. Still, the best gift for him now was seeing thousands of happy faces and the ritual complete; he even harbored hope deep inside his heart, that maybe this ritual would bring in another Golden Age (or at least a Silver one), and his name would be written in history forever as the one who conducted it.  
He held the title of High Priest for second cycle only, and this was his first ritual, so he wanted everything to be perfect. He studied all the accounts of previous rituals, and wanted to be at least on par with them, if not better. The prideful part of him, of course, wished to make the celebration so grand, that it would be the absolutely greatest one so far, but his religion demanded modesty and tradition, and so he was constantly at odds with himself during the planning and preparation. For example, he wished that music would play all day in and around the palace, but for many cycles before, they only played one symphony at the start of the day, and more music was played only after the success of ritual; it was never exactly written, that no more music should be played, but it was done this way so many times before, that it became a tradition. And you couldn’t go against tradition, at least, not in his position, where tradition was a cornerstone of success and prosperity.  
He just hoped he wouldn’t have to mess with people from slums, as there was nothing grand about joining two beggars, but such things did happen before, and previous High Priests had no choice in the matter, as it was the will of the Gods.  
“Your Eminence, the Monarch awaits you in the throne room,” the servant interrupted his train of thoughts, speaking in toneless voice.  
“My gratitude, Anre. Thou may departest now,” Ignummon replied.  
The servant bowed properly to him, the priest just waved his palm dismissively, still possessed by the vision of tomorrow’s feast. As much as he wanted to stay, the Monarch was now waiting for him, and it wasn’t a good idea to make royalty wait. As he descended the spiral staircase, he bumped into something fast moving on the next flight of stairs, but kept his balance and examined surroundings. There were two beautiful women near him, one standing in the corridor with her hands to her mouth, and another one was next to him, obviously the one he bumped into.  
“Your Highness,” he bowed his head to each of the women, “Pardon my unwitting and clumsy descent, I got lost in thoughts and looked around not.”  
“No, Your Eminence, the fault was mine, I was indiscreet with emotion, and rushed too fast,” the lady next to him said.  
“I assume ye were coming to an audience with His Majesty?” Ignummon tried.  
“You know very well, that neither one of us needs to have an official audience to visit and talk to our father,” the princess closest to him spoke with feeling.  
“Diane! Do not talkest like that to His Eminence!” another princess gasped, removing her hands from her mouth, only to bring them back there a second later.  
“Wherefore, Victoria? We know him all our life, or have you forgat that it was he who learned us in grammar, theology and _etiquette_ ways?” Diane asked her sister viciously, putting a lot of weight in the second-to-last last word, making it obvious to Ignummon, that it was her, who was the cause of her foul mood.  
“Oh, I assure ye, it is no problem. Diane is right; forsooth, ye can even callest me by my name, if you deem it meet enough.” Ignummon tried to gain control over situation. Angry princesses _always_ meant trouble.  
Diane simply stared at Victoria, smoldering with anger, and, without saying much, except ‘vale’ to Ignummon, went down the stairs.  
“Pardon my sister, Your Eminence, it is naught but a freak of hers, still, I’m ruth for her,” Victoria looked at her feet.  
“Your Highness, verily, you art one fair and gentle damsel. Might you discover to me, why Her Royal Highness Princess Diane is upset?” the High Priest inquired, “I am only interested to forfend any misunderstandings.”  
“The time is not right to delate this. But I biddest you to speak with my father, I’m sure he will tell you more,” Victoria looked directly at Ignummon now, “For now, I must bid you farewell, Your Eminence.”  
And she went down the stairs. Ignummon went ahead in corridor, and took a seat on a small cushion chair. There was no reason to walk down one more flight of stairs to meet with his Monarch, while the princesses were there, he would simply be asked to wait, and he might as well do it here in comfort.  
“Leda!” he called not too loud. To answer his call, the princesses’ servant appeared at the door of one of the bedrooms.  
“How art thou?” he smiled at her.  
“Your Eminence, you called me not just to ask me how am I doing?” she asked after a proper bow.  
“Verily. I got a moment to myself here, so I wondered if thou hast any potation?” he clarified, looking at her cunningly.  
“A bumper then?” she queried, narrowing her eyes.  
“Yea, please,” Ignummon tried not to look too jubilant.  
Leda bowed again, went back to the bedroom and reappeared in the doorway after a minute or two, carrying a silver tray with a goblet full of dark violet liquid on top of it, which she deposited on the table near Ignummon’s chair. ‘Hm-m-m, purplum wine, could be worse,’ he thought as he took first experimental sip, and a couple more afterwards, thinking ‘Wow, it’s not bad, not bad at all.’ As a member of the clergy, he mostly drank spiced alcoholic beverages, which were more commonly known as ‘spirits’, but, as it is with all spicy things, too much created a steady dislike in all but a few members of a community, and so seeing a drunk priest was a rare sight indeed. Ignummon was no exception to the rule, so the sweet royal wine tasted even sweeter to him. In about half an hour, he finished the goblet and put it down, got up, and went down the spiral staircase again.  
Specific problem of High Priest relationship with Monarch was that it was never written down who is whose servant. High Priest was chosen by the vote of clergy, and was supposed to be the main enforcer of the will of the Gods, while Monarch was crowned once by the people to rule them, and the crown was passed down from father to the firstborn child ever since. Technically, a Monarch was a subject of priests as well, making High Priest the highest ranking official in Purple World. But in actuality, due to the fact that the people had no say about who is supposed to succeed the previous High Priest, and due to peculiar nature of the Gods (who were merely interested in keeping the agreements established long ago, and never appeared to show any interest in mortal affairs, no matter how much praying one did), the church slowly and gradually started to lose power, until a High Priest became something of an equal to a Monarch, albeit less pompous, and, suddenly, easier to reach for commoners. And Ignummon used it to his advantage.  
With every public speech, every time he walked the streets of city, talking to people, listening to their problems and concerns, he gained more support for himself. And then he did even better thing. He cemented the role and influence of the church in society, by becoming a friend of the current Monarch. Most conflicts became solvable through calm dialogue, and favors were exchanged pretty often.  
“Ah, Ignummon, ‘tis good to see you!” the Monarch decided to skip the pleasantries, and stood up to greet the High Priest. They exchanged handshakes.  
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Alastor” Ignummon allowed himself a careful smile.  
“I understand betimes cometh the celebration and the time for ritual,” the Monarch began.  
“Yea. Is there something troubling you?” the High Priest was eager to understand what is going on.  
“You can never tell, who will be affected by ritual, but natheless, you can know who will not be, is that correct?” the Monarch went to his balcony, his eyes fixed on something distant, while the High Priest was shadowing him.  
“Like enough, but in sooth, only the person in question can telleth you that,” clarified Ignummon.  
“So if I tell you,” the Monarch took a pause, looking at the railing on the balcony, and then raised his head to look into the High Priest’s eyes directly, “That Diane told me she feeleth she is not the one?”  
“It means, that chances for royal espousal are halved, my Lord,” Ignummon said respectfully. He just hated to break bad news to the people, especially to the Monarch.  
“I know not, whether to be fain or bewailing,” the Monarch confessed, as he slowly turned back to look at the view.  
“Mayhap ‘mazed’ is the word you are looking for?” Ignummon put in respectfully.  
Silence descended for awhile.  
“I dare to hope it won’t be some lordling on the outskirts of upper town,” the Monarch said finally.  
“It could be even a churl, my Lord,” Ignummon warned, realizing his mistake too late.  
“Fie upon you, for saying that!” the Monarch suddenly became so enraged, that he spat on the floor, “I’d sooner die, than see my daughter wedding a commoner!”  
“Good grace, I too give preference to a man of quality, rather than some repulsive scapegrace as a husband for our beloved Victoria!” the High Priest tried to recover his footing, and continued in a quieter tone “We know not if it is going to be Victoria though…”  
“I know it is her. I have a feeling,” the Monarch insisted stubbornly.  
“My Lord, I hearkened of no such thing,” Ignummon tried to speak as soothing as possible.  
The Monarch took another pause, and then appeared to reach a decision.  
“Thenceforth, I commend the ritual to you,” he declared.  
Ignummon was struck by this, as if it was a first nail in his coffin.  
“Marry! Are you going to hold _me_ personally accountable for the will of the Gods?” he stammered.  
The Monarch did not answer, but waved his hand at him, informing him that the audience was over. Ignummon knew better than to prod him further on the subject, and departed back to his chapel, two flights of stairs above the throne room. His elated mood deflated to a quite sour one, instead of dreamy expectation and pleasant anxiety, he now feared what could happen the next day. Oh, his chances of survival were quite high, but it would be just that – constant fight for survival instead of luxurious life he got used to just recently.  
And he knew exactly what to do now – when you feel bad, try to find someone, who feels worse; so he decided to listen to complaints and accept confessions from citizens. Besides, as it was already said, it was a sign of good will towards his people, improving his chances against the Monarch, if confrontation should become unavoidable.  
“Your Eminence, today’s first supplicant is here. Wilt you see him now, or should I tell him to avaunt?” the guard at the door asked him, distracting him from his dark thoughts.  
“I shall see him right away,” he decided, and put on a fake smile, adopting a look of constipated good will.  
“I wish you a very good day, Your Eminence,” a soft and slightly high-pitched voice said, as a giant white figure entered the room.  


# 

  
As much as some people feared it, the tomorrow finally came. The ringing music from the palace sent strangest echoes into the valley below the bridge, and while in and around the palace it provided a merry mood for everyone, the people in slums felt rather worried and mesmerized about strange echoes around. The working class from lower city, on one hand, was happy about increased demand for their wares, and on the other hand, met this with distaste as a disruption and obstacle for their slow-paced clockwork lifestyle as it was.  
And the noise and intensity of celebratory activities only magnified as the day progressed towards evening. In the worst part of city, where four houses of odd shapes and sizes stood, Marcius sat on a bench outside. He had a day off from work, as the chief librarian closed the place for uncertain period, afraid that celebrating people might wander in and damage his precious books.  
He still contemplated, whether he should go to celebration or not, as he saw Alabaster walk from around the corner.  
“Hey there, Alabaster, you took a day off?” he greeted his friend, smiling.  
“I wish you only the best things on this finest of mornings, friend,” Alabaster said, and answered the question, “No, they told me they simply didn’t need any more of my help today.”  
“Why is that?” Marcius frowned suspiciously, “With the celebration coming, they need all the loaders they can get, is that not so?”  
“It is, but they said they want only the pretty ones on the street today,” Alabaster said in his slow manner, and added “Guess I’m not pretty, but I’m sure they mean well.”  
Alabaster’s positive attitude was as indomitable as he was himself, but it had a tendency to make people weary of listening how other people take advantage of Alabaster and how he thought they were doing him good. Marcius was no exception, who was capable of impartial look on life, and whose inner sense of justice went steaming each time he listened to Alabaster. But he had enough sense to stay silent, knowing he couldn’t convince Alabaster that anyone thought bad thoughts, and he would only go down himself in his eyes if he tried. Besides, how could you like and admire a person and try to change him at the same time?  
“Tough luck,” was the only thing he said.  
Alabaster sat on the ground next to him, as no bench short of stone benches in palace garden could bear his weight. Exactly at the moment he sat down, Ferris bolted past them, spotted them and darted back to take a quick seat next to Marcius on a bench.  
“Hello guys,” he chocked, breathing rapidly, “Watcha doin’?”  
“Nothing. You could say we both got a day off,” Marcius answered flatly.  
“Oh! Me too,” Ferris said, “Chief courier said I limp too much, so I better go home.”  
“But you don’t, I saw you run just a second ago,” objected Marius.  
“I know. That was just an excuse. I guess they are afraid that people will learn about me living in slums and all, you know, bad publicity…” Ferris waved a hand, as if the topic was a very annoying fly.  
“That leaves only one of us…” Alabaster said dreamily.  
And it didn’t take long, as a sound of loud swearing was heard long before Everest could be seen. A distinct ‘How dare they?! To treat me, _me_ like that! I’ll show ‘em!..’ could be heard around the same corner, from where Alabaster came earlier.  
“Good day Everest,” Marcius said without looking his direction.  
Everest appeared from around the corner and looked at the assemblage wide-eyed.  
“What in Gods’ names are you doing here, guys?” he looked from one to another, “Did you all get a day off too?”  
“Welcome to the club,” Marcius made a casual gesture, “What happened?”  
“They said I couldn’t work at the quarry today, because I don’t use a perfume,” he became enraged again, “Like, _who cares_ how I smell while I work the stone?!”  
“Guess they are afraid of surprise inspections,” Ferris made a guess.  
“Or maybe they just want you to have a good time at the celebration,” Alabaster said with a tone of an adult, who tells children that fire is not evil, just because it burns your fingers.  
“So we are going to the celebration then?” Everest looked puzzled at them, “Like, should we?”  
“I was contemplating this myself,” admitted Marcius, “I think it is an interesting idea, now that we all have nothing better to do.”  
Everest said nothing, and purposefully strolled towards his house.  
“Oi, where are you going?” Ferris asked.  
“You don’t expect me to go like that to celebration, do you?” he pointed at his dirty work clothes, and added “And mark my words, no good will come of this venture…”  


# 

  
The celebration proved to be everything Ignummon initially hoped for and more so. Wealthy and aristocratic families enjoyed a masquerade whole day, exchanging whispers, gifts, secret love confessions and generally engaging in intrigue of various debaucheries. Specifically, there was no tradition about that, but people suddenly became inventive about entertaining themselves, as if they were just waiting for occasion to behave impulsively and irresponsibly.  
Middle class mostly watched the rich, famous and noble with quiet envy and shy indecision, having some doubts, if the celebration was theirs to enjoy as well, but they provided a pleasant celebratory background and variety for upper-class citizens, as some nobles actually enjoyed including them into their games, amusing themselves at the clueless behavior of merry bystanders in spicy situations.  
Lower working class and the underworld citizens of slums were largely ignored, as they were either too busy preparing the celebration for their richer compatriots, since food, drinks and various entertainments were supposed to be plentiful and available on demand, or simply weren’t desirable enough to play their part in the proceedings. Anyone who ever prepared a celebration for someone else knew the drill instinctively, and also understood, that cleaning the place after was sometimes even more difficult than any preparation. Those undesirable were scoffed by everyone – by the celebrating, because they didn’t enjoy their company, and by those preparing the celebration – because, as they were generally out of place, they weren’t much help and therefore only made things more complicated.  
As the day neared the evening, Ignummon grew more and more restless. Any attempts to gain another audience with the Monarch failed miserably, as he seemed to move from place to place in a blink of an eye, and was always unavailable, even to such a high ranking official, as the High Priest himself. In the end, he thought, if he can’t influence the outcome of a situation – why worry? Instead he focused on preparation for the ritual, and started to prepare ‘plan B’ just in case things went bad. All the palace guards at the ritual were carefully and quietly replaced with a body of hand-picked temple guards, who, although having same equipment and training, were loyal directly to the High Priest. The ranking officials, those he could reach and order around, were dismissed for the day, all done in spirit of ‘good will’ relying largely on religious respect towards the holiday, Gods and authority of the High Priest, so as not to attract any attention or raise suspicion. He even sent off his bodyguards, in order to appear less prepared for confrontation. A thousand favors were exchanged, a hundred of quiet agreements made. He wasn’t going down, even in worst case scenario.  
And finally, the time came. Nobles and middle class gathered in a huge crowd at the foot of the bridge, where a huge wooden platform was constructed beforehand, draped in red linen covers, so as to hide its true material and muffle the footsteps. A handful of serving folk deposited a small stone basin in the middle, and, bowing to the assemblage, quickly made an exit.  
It was Ignummon’s turn now. He took the ornate wooden box in one hand, and a glass vial in the other, and made an entry. He deposited both things on the stone basin, and greeted the crowd by raising both his hands to them and smiling. He heard a lot of quiet footsteps behind him, and, without turning around, bowed sideways. The crowd cheered to the Monarch, his Queen and their daughters. The princesses looked simply astounding, as an otherworldly images of beauty, their dresses a shimmering ghosts in the evening bright with artificial light.  
‘Now,’ Ignummon thought to himself.  
“Dear citizens! It is with great pleasure I announce, the time is nigh for next ritual!” he spoke with as much power as his voice would allow him, and the fact that people below went silent (if only a few whispers were exchanged) helped a lot. “As it was three cycles before, tonight we shall join two people in holy matrimony. Verily, they were destined by the Gods to be together, and tonight the Gods shall mark them with their holy sign for us! And once marked, I, here at the altar, bidde them to walk thither, so we can complete the ritual, seal our pact with the Gods, and continue our merry feasting and wassail!”  
The Monarch moved forward, with a speech of his own.  
“Hearken, my dear people, for we all remember the Golden Age that was upon us, when I became joined with my dear wife, Your Queen Anna!” he made a pause, and the crowd took its chance to cheer and applaud, “Not to diminish the last three prosperous cycles we had with our dearest Lord Arthur and Lady Monica!” he made a pause again, and watched as the crowd created a space around people in question, who were in turn waving and smiling at their relatives and acquaintances.  
‘Uh-oh,’ thought Ignummon, ‘Here goes…’  
“And in these prosperous times, I would like you to bethink yourselves of the importance of quality and tradition in our society…”  
Even the High Priest, who was used to these kinds of speeches, went glassy-eyed, while the Monarch continued on and on, how he would like the chosen ones to be of upper social class. ‘He doesn’t understand, that Gods don’t care for his speeches, and the chances don’t improve just because he wants them to,’ Ignummon thought, while the Monarch decided to include a joke popular among nobles into his speech. When he finished, people responded with a round of disorganized applause and some unenthusiastic cheering. Nobody liked long and complicated speeches like this one, especially when the speaker obviously didn’t want to speak his mind plainly.  
As he finished speaking, a few servants put up a very large piece of tapestry with the symbolic image of man painted over it, and attached it to hooks prepared earlier, hanging from the wooden plank above. The High Priest, in the mean time, opened the ornate chest, and took out a number of small golden figurines of Gods, and got down to arranging them in correct order in a half-circle on the edge of stone basin. After this, he uncorked the vial he brought along, to pour what looked like blood in the basin. It was, of course, his own blood, which was slowly collected from him over the course of previous cycle, but it was a small price to pay for all the advantages of being the High Priest.  
“Multi sunt vocati, pauci vero electi,” he pronounced the holy words loudly.  
The blood in basin instantly evaporated, rose as a thin layer of mist, and hung in front of the tapestry. A moment later, one of the stars in the clear evening sky twinkled, almost doubled in size and sent a ray of bright starlight straight onto the tapestry, where it illuminated the figure of man. A gasp escaped from a thousand mouths, as a triangle with strange symbols appeared at the base of a painted man’s neck.  
“Behold, it is trigon on the neck!” he announced to the people, but most of them could see it anyway.  
He felt like a wound-up spring. ‘This is it! Please let me be lucky, let me be lucky’ he thought rapidly, sort-of preying inside.  
He wasn’t.  


# 

  
“I. Told. You.” Everest said smugly, as whole company slowly shambled back home “Cap’n Ric is full of bullshit.”  
Nobody answered him. Usually quick Ferris sagged, and projected an aura of sadness. Alabaster was thoughtful, seemingly unable to understand, how it was, that some people wished them to enjoy the holiday, while others didn’t. And Marcius knew better than to say anything to Everest.  
“We shouldn’t have gone in the first place,” seeing that no one challenged his thought, Everest continued.  
They went down the stairs, and as they did so, Marcius tripped suddenly, and fell sideways into a refuse pile. Ferris chuckled, and extended an arm to help him get up. As he got up, with a little help from his friends, he dusted his clothes as best he could, but they were already stained beyond brushing; only a thorough wash would help.  
“What happened to you now? You walked these stairs hundreds of times before,” Everest questioned him.  
“I don’t know, I just felt a little light-headed,” Marcius answered, removing a piece of rotting cabbage from behind his ear.  
“Wait, wuts that?” Ferris asked, pointing at Marcius’s neck.  
“What?” Marcius tried to look where Ferris pointed, expecting more cabbage.  
“ _That_ ,” Ferris insisted, “ _Triangule_.”  
“What? You mean ‘triangle’?” Marcius was bewildered.  
“Ye, one of them things,” Ferris agreed.  
“Let me have a look now,” Everest examined Marcius’s neck, wrinkling his nose at the smell of dumpster that was now like an aura around his friend. As he looked, his eyes went wide, “What the hell is that, Marcius?”  
“What is it?!” Marcius lost his temper, “Can you tell me?!”  
“Alabaster, could you bring that lantern to us, please?” Everest asked the tallest man in their group, and pointed at the lantern hanging high on the wall not far from them.  
“No problem, as long as we are just borrowing it,” Alabaster replied.  
“Don’t worry, we are, no one will mind,” Everest said, as he escorted Marcius to the barrel of rainwater at the house nearby. As soon as Alabaster came closer with a light source, Everest bent down to the water, pulling Marcius closer to water with him.  
“Now look!” he ordered him, and turned his head just so, so he would see the reflection of his neck.  
“I don’t see any-” he started to say, then stopped and exclaimed “Oh no…”  
Marcius fell backwards from the barrel and sat, pale as a sheet.  
“It’s the _sign_ , isn’t it?” Ferris just couldn’t stay silent at a moment like this, rapidly became excited, and joyfully added “This means he will be married today!”  
Alabaster scratched his head with a hook from lantern thoughtfully, making its light dance around randomly, while Everest stared intently at Marcius, who didn’t move for quite a while now.  
“Are you feeling alright, friend?” Everest queried quietly.  
“No, I’m not,” he replied in empty voice.  
“But this is great!” effused Ferris, “It could mean a change for him! He could get married to a daughter of a wealthy merchant, or even better, a noblewoman!”  
“Look at me Ferris,” Marcius said, as he suddenly stared at him, “Look at me! Who would want to marry a trashcan prince like me?”  
“Oh cut it out, you’re the smartest person I know,” Ferris gave him a shy, apologetic smile.  
“Well, let us go and get you changed then,” Everest put in, reaching a decision, “It is our duty to our friend and our nation.”  
“You think old Ric is going to let us in?” Ferris doubted.  
“Like he has any choice in the matter now,” Everest replied confidently.  


# 

  
After finishing his first part in the ritual, Ignummon, looked up in time to see Victoria falling, and caught at the last moment by her father’s huge hand. Afraid, of what he might discover, Ignummon allowed himself to look her neck. And there it was, the triangle full of strange symbols, just like the one on the painting of a man. It wasn’t painted or anything, rather, it appeared to be glowing white under her skin.  
‘Keep calm, keep calm, it’s just one coincidence. It may still come out alright,” he tried to calm himself with thoughts.  
“The first chosen is Her Royal Highness, Princess Victoria!” he proclaimed, sweat rapidly appearing on his forehead, “I bidde thee to come forth, oh the second chosen one!”  
That was followed by turning of heads in the crowd, and rising of murmur. Folks inspected the necks of those near them, and some of them got slapped for invasion of personal space. Ignummon looked pleadingly at the most prominent nobles, and when they noticed his stare, they gave him short helpless shrugs, like ‘Don’t look at me, I’m not the one’. A fight broke out over lady’s honor somewhere in the back of the crowd. It was a disaster. Worst case scenario.  
“I command order!” the Monarch stepped forward, and barked in the voice as loud as a thunder. The fight stopped, and angry participants could still be heard hissing with hate at each other, while crowd surrounded and effectively separated them. The attention was now focused on the Monarch, people expected him to do something.  


# 

  
“You seem to have mistaken your position,” captain Ricard smiled condescendingly at the assembly, “I got Monarch’s orders, clearly saying I’m to allow no one, _no one_ ,” he pointed a finger at each of the men before him, “In the lower city on the ritual day.”  
“But you don’t understand, Sir!” Ferris enthused “He’s got the _sign_!”  
“I repeat, Monarch’s orde-” captain Ricard began again.  
“Didn’t you hear?” Everest came forth, and grabbed the captain by the scruff of his neck and shook him gently, but firmly “He’s got _the sign_ , _the mark_ however you call it, he’s part of ritual now! Keep us outside, but let him in!”  
“Unhand me you filthy blackguard!” captain forcefully slapped Everest on the wrist. He stood back, removing his hands from captain, and looked at him with distaste.  
“Let me have a look now. If it really is a sign of Gods’ will, I shall let him in,” Ricard said finally.  
The guys pushed Marcius forward and into the lantern light at the gates to the lower city.  
“Here, Sir,” Marcius showed him his neck.  
Captain looked at the sign intently, and then grinned.  
“Fairbanks!” he called back to the guardhouse at the gate, and a sleepy soldier looked out.  
“Yes, Sir, Captain Ricard?” he said in bored tone, and yawned.  
“Fetch me a priest now, will you?” he said cunningly.  
“But they are all at the celebration now, except maybe old Pecker, who is probably drunk by now,” soldier contradicted, making it obvious, that he didn’t want to go anywhere.  
“Fetch him then!” Ricard lost his patience, and barked the last phrase.  
“Yes Sir!” stammered the soldier, as he lumbered away.  
Everything went silent, as they waited for a priest. The guys wondered why a priest was needed, and Marcius had a bad feeling about all of this.  
Shortly, a guard came back, and deposited himself back in guardhouse, while a rather unsteadily walking priest behind him approached the captain.  
“You needed, me, Sir?” said Pecker with a hiccup.  
“Yes, now tell me what the punishment for forging of religious symbols is?” captain Ricard questioned him.  
“What?!” whole assemblage chocked out.  
“You must be thinking yourselves awfully smart, walking in here, and thinking I’m going to buy this!” captain Ricard turned back on four friends with a furious face, and turned back to the priest, “So what is it?!”  
“There’s no such thing as forging religious symbols, but there is a punishment for impersonating a religious figure, i.e. a priest” the old priest sounded as if he was reading it from somewhere, and stammered “The punishment is half a cycle in p-prison.”  
“Aha!” captain heard exactly what he needed, “Now, you see, you’re not exactly impersonating a priest, so I guess I will hold _you_ ” he pointed a finger at Marcius “In detention for a few days, and then you will be released with a warning. As to you,” he pointed at Everest, “an assault on the officer on duty without any serious repercussions or visible damage means a penalty of ten coins, and I will have to detain you until the writing of a protocol is complete. Or would you rather prefer to be an accomplice to the main perpetuator, and get half his punishment, i.e. one full day in detention?”  
Any other day, they would consider being lucky to get away with crime that easy, detention meant that you got a day off work, and fed free of charge. Living in slums and getting in detention meant nothing for your work either, unlike the working class, who was panically afraid to lose their job because of it, and being kicked out to live a wretched life in the slums. But the slums folk already hit the bottom, so they largely had nothing to lose, besides, captain Ricard was known to deal soft punishment on trespassers unlike other officials, who in his shoes would not hesitate to give them even a full cycle of detention. And so Everest just shook his head, and reached for his purse, counting coins.  
“Come with me son, don’t make it any worse for yourself,” Ricard told Marcius, and then shook his head at him “Chalk triangle? Who were you going to fool with that? I might have believed you, if it was a circle on the shoulder, like three cycles ago…”  
“But it… Can be… Different…” the priest managed to choke and passed out.  
“Fairbanks!” Captain Ricard barked sharply, and when the sleepy soldier peeked out again, ordered him, pointing at the body of the priest on the ground “Get that disgrace out of my sight, and when done, assume my post while I deal with folks here,” he looked back at Alabaster and Ferris, “And I strongly recommend,” he stressed these last words, “for you two to go back home, until you cause more trouble, got it? Be glad that I pretend you were never here.”  
They nodded and went away.  
“Fairbanks, snap out of it!” captain barked at the soldier, who was still sitting in the guardhouse, desperately yawning, while captain led Marcius and Everest inside.  


# 

  
“Wrap it up, _now_!” hissed the Monarch at the High Priest, who was just standing there, not knowing what to do.  
“What wish you me to do? I am supposed to engage in espousal now,” the High Priest replied in the hiss of his own, “That never happened before!”  
“Then pick someone, anyone, of quality and wed them!” the Monarch made a gesture at the crowd, which gone restless and confused in the mean time.  
“It worketh not this way! We can’t go against the will of the Gods; they will punish all of us swiftly for that!” Ignummon angrily replied, took a deep breath and continued more calmly “Once before, Count Kalder was chosen and at the same time he was indisposed with sickness and stayed at home, so priests found him only two hours later, and the ritual could be concluded.”  
“Are you saying, that the best option is to stall for time?” the Monarch finally heard him, “How much time do we have exactly?”  
“One day,” the High Priest replied simply.  
“Then what?” the Monarch narrowed his eyes.  
“Divine punishment,” he replied in simple tones again.  
“ _What kind of?_ ” the Monarch asked through gritted teeth.  
“Bane, corruption, pestilence, ague,” Ignummon listed, “Callest it what you likest.”  
“Balderdash!” the Monarch spat.  
“I did make neither pact with Gods, nor its conditions,” Ignummon stated. Now that the worst had come to pass, and the ‘plan B’ kicked into action, he felt more confident, but most importantly, a lot calmer, since he had nothing to worry about anymore.  
The crowd now became even more restless than before, people started actively discussing what happened and sharing their opinions and impressions.  
“Hearken, my people!” the High Priest decided to speak, “I bidde you to go home, go home and look at the necks of your loved ones, neighbors, ill ones – anyone, who hath not been present here today!”  
“Good call,” the Monarch quietly said behind him.  


# 

  
The following day was informally acknowledged as a holiday as well, but more out of necessity, than any religious significance. Inebriated citizens were lying in the streets, at the tables and in their beds, and telling them to go to work in such a state was inhumane at best. Their more sober compatriots slowly dug through the chaos that was left in the wake of celebration, not in a terrible hurry to bring the things back to normal, as that would require too much effort. And the fact that ritual wasn’t complete, only added to the effect, as nobody knew exactly, when the wedding was about to commence. Because it must commence. It was tradition.  
The lower city, as the part of town (slums were not considered one) from which the most people didn’t show up for the ritual at the palace bridge, was raided by the High Priest himself with a full body of palace and temple guards, who were searching every corner and turning every stone for a person with triangular mark on their neck. The rumors about princess having the other one made some people stop and think, and a few of them even tried to paint it on themselves, but they were all turned down by the High Priest, since no one could exactly replicate the holy symbols inside the triangle, and the High Priest wasn’t bent on showing the tapestry to the people again. Exactly what he didn’t need right now, was a huge range and variety of impostors, among which the real thing could easily slip right through his fingers. And he knew the punishment for not finding the right one all too well, and he feared it more than anything, more than the enraged Monarch even, if it came to the fact, that his daughter was to married to a scholar or a craftsman. A couple times he even had to force people to remove bandages around the place where the sign should be, but it looked like the person in question could not be found.  
And that was a problem. Because king would be angry if his daughter was married to someone from the lower part of town, but if you get someone from slums, he would simply be enraged, and it did not bode well for anyone. But that day, even before midday, they ran out of lower part of the city to search. Much more respectfully searching the upper part of town overnight, they also found nothing; otherwise they would never appear in the lower city to start with.  
‘Oh this is bad…’ Ignummon thought. The last place to look was the slums. He feared the Monarch’s reaction, when he would be reported that the search now continues in the slums. Besides, it was chaos there, and the smell, oh, the smell was intolerable to his upper-class nostrils. Still, it was that or death. So he decided to risk the displeasure of the Monarch, and took in addition to temple and palace guards also all of the city guards. If he’s going to suffer from the smell and all, he might as well make everyone else suffer it with him.  
When captain Ricard learned of the reason for the search, he remembered what happened on the night of the ritual. So he took Fairbanks with him, and went off to find three witnesses, who knew what had transpired back then. It didn’t take him too long, as during his routine patrols in the slums, he knew the general layout of the area, and, with a help of a few given directions, found four houses of odd shapes, where presently, Alabaster was helping Ferris to fix a collapsed door to Ferris’s house. White giant’s immense strength proved handy to hold the heavy door, while Ferris fiddled with door hinges. Everest was sitting not far away, trying unsuccessfully to disassemble the door lock, which broke under the weight of collapsed door.  
“Oh, good, all eggs in one basket,” captain Ricard said with fake merriment, “I wish to talk to y’all.”  
“What rule did we break already, and how much is the penalty?” Everest asked, bored.  
“None so far, but you can, if you try hard enough,” Ricard replied with venom in his voice, and continued “The palace, temple and city guards are coming. They are searching for the one marked with a sign of Gods’ will.”  
“Then give them one, you got him safely locked up somewhere,” Everest snapped at him.  
“I would hear none of it! He was punished, and he will be out tomorrow evening, end of story,” Captain Ricard declared, “What I came here to tell, is that you are not to disturb His Eminence or his guards with your stories, or I will bring you in on charges of deception, do I make myself clear?”  
“But we were telling the truth,” Alabaster spoke with power.  
“I don’t believe the Gods chose a poor scoundrel from the slums to wed a princess!” captain laughed heartily, “I would rather believe myself, or Fairbanks there more fit for it.”  
Fairbanks brightened at mention of his name in such a context, and they both departed laughing, but just before turning the corner, Ricard turned back.  
“If I learn any of you even whispered something, nay, worse, thought of whispering – I’m going to lock all of you in a cell for the rest of the cycle, and I will make sure you are fed only garbage,” his eyes gleamed evilly, and he was gone.  
“What a douche,” swore Ferris, and what was impressive, that Alabaster nodded to him in consent.  
“Didn’t you hear what he said? A princess!” Everest spoke, amused, “Our Marcius is destined to wed _a princess_!”  
“Which one? That pretty one, whatshername, Diana? Or the one, that’s always in the back?” Ferris tried to think while at the same time focused on putting door back in its place, and failing miserably at both things.  
“Does it matter?” Everest said, and proposed, unsure “Maybe we should speak up, when the guards come…”  
“No, it would only complicate things,” suddenly spoke Alabaster, “I got an idea, but we have to wait until the evening.”  
“What is it?” Everest queried, but Alabaster shook his head.  
“Trust me,” he assured him in that high-pitched and yet powerful voice of his.  


#

  
‘Total and complete disaster,’ Ignummon thought, ‘I will go down in history as the first High Priest who failed the ritual. That is, if there is going to be any history to speak of…’  
The search party through all of the Purple World found nothing. They even searched all of the hermit cabins in the plains around the city. Nothing. The marked man seemed to have vanished into thin air.  
He was focused and concentrated on his task now, and even a short dialogue with the Monarch didn’t get him down. Despite being scolded for searching the slums, he saw relief bordering with joy on the Monarch’s face after he told him they found nothing.  
But it was so unlike Gods to give a quest that could not be finished. The marked man had to be close, had to be nearby. Yet he was hidden from his sight. Thinking more and more about this gave him only a headache, and failed to provide any worthwhile ideas.  
A knock came on the door.  
“Your Eminence, the first supplicant for confession is here. Should I turneth him away?”  
“No-no, do not let him,” Ignummon said, and made a welcoming gesture without raising his head to look at the person who just entered. This time he didn’t even bother to put a fake smile on.  
“I wish you the best of evenings, Your Eminence,” a familiar voice greeted him, and the High Priest looked up at the white giant, who entered the room.  
“Thee attention to thy religious life in such dire times is praiseworthy,” Ignummon praised the visitor absently.  
“Thank you, Your Eminence, it means a lot coming from you,” Alabaster said, “But I wondered if I could confess about sins of my friends too, particularly of one friend.”  
That got Ignummon’s attention.  
“I’m afeared I can’t do that. Can’t your friend cometh for shrift himself?” he queried, raising an eyebrow.  
“Your Eminence, he is denied that pleasure, as he is imprisoned,” Alabaster continued to expertly play with Ignummon’s curiousity.  
“I see. On what charges?” Ignummon asked another question. This could be interesting.  
“Forging of religious symbols. A mark on the neck,” Alabaster laid it out finally.  
Ignummon couldn’t sit anymore. ‘Idiot!’ he thought about himself, ‘Of course, the only places we didn’t check!’ He went forward and gave a hug to the gigantic white figure, laughing at Alabasters surprised facial expression, and reached for the door knob.  
“Your Eminence!” Alabaster exclaimed, “But what about my confession?”  
“Consider thyself forgiven!” the High Priest replied smugly, and promptly left.  


#

  
There’s no written explanation about the workings of the early warning system, which some people have in forms of gut feelings, exchanged favors, short written notes left in designated places and whispers in shadowy corridors traded by individuals, neither of whom can see each other’s faces. Some say it exists just because some people are control freaks, who like to keep tabs on everyone and everything; others say it exists as safety mechanism some government officials employ as they are panically afraid of losing their jobs, because they can’t excel at anything else. Whatever it may be, the fact remains – captain Ricard learned about the soon-to-be surprise inspection of prisons by none other than His Eminence High Priest Ignummon the Fourth.  
“Guess it’s your lucky day,” a sharp, but not too strong kick at his back woke Marcius from his slumber on prison cot. “Hey you, get a move on!”  
“Huh?” was all he could reply.  
“I said, gather your stuff and make yourself scarce!” bellowed captain Ricard, “Ah, wait, you don’t have any stuff. All the better, now move, move, move!”  
Marcius got up and hurried out of the cell and turned right, but another bellow from captain stopped him in his tracks.  
“Not there, idiot, back door!” the last thing he wished for right now, was to show his superiors the troublemaker whom he arrested as a precaution for more trouble, and not for breaking of any particular law.  
Marcius stumbled through the dungeons, clearly still in the process of waking up, followed by the captain. As they passed the barracks, they went past soldier Fairbanks, who was enjoying himself with a cup of some hot beverage and slowly unwrapping the paper package on the table next to him, holding it like some kind of treasure.  
“What is that, Fairbanks?”captain quickly grabbed the package, and looked at the soldier with distaste, “What are you doing here, relaxing, when we have a surprise inspection in less than half an hour? Get up and go clean the place, check all prisoners by list, erase all records mentioning this guy here,” he nudged Marcius in the shoulder.  
As Fairbanks, throwing longing looks at the package in the captains hands, departed, captain proceeded to lead Marcius further through the maze of narrow corridors, as it appeared that whole prison and guard barracks were somehow stuffed in and under the eastern wall of the lower city. At the end of their journey, they reached a strange room, with a stand for halberds on one side, and a big tapestry with a national flag of Purple World on the other side. The captain waved the tapestry aside, to reveal a wooden door, reinforced with metal that corroded almost to the point of crumbling to dust. He fiddled with a keychain for quite awhile, until he found a key that looked remotely the same as the metal bindings on the door, and, after a few tries, finally opened the door.  
The rush of fresh air blew straight into their faces, as the scarce evening light outside made visible the tiny alley between two buildings, barely wide enough for a man to walk without turning his shoulders slightly sideways. Captain pushed Marcius out.  
“Away with you, troublemaker,” captain realized he was still holding Fairbanks’s package in his hands, and after a moment of thinking, he pushed it into Marcius’s hands, “Souvenir,” he added, as he chuckled and slammed the door in his face. Marcius heard the lock clicking behind him.  
Standing outside, he realized that evening was surprisingly cold. Mildly curious about the package, he unwrapped it, to reveal two ham sandwiches, one small tomato and a hard-boiled egg, with eggshell removed. He ate the egg, and wrapped the rest of the food in paper again, to finish it later.  
As he exited the alley, he realized, that he was in the lower city, so he made his way back to the slums. He had enough adventures for some time.  


#

  
“Impossible! You shalt havest to check again!” Ignummon shouted at the chief of the temple guard.  
“Sir in sooth, I have all the records here. I am absolutely sure there is no mistake here,” the chief of temple guard countered in his deep, low-pitched voice.  
They simply stared at each other.  
‘Damn, he managed to evade me again, it is as if he didn’t want to be found,” thought the High Priest.  
He sighed and sat back in his chair, the gears of his mind turning, but he couldn’t even get himself to say anything. There was nothing to say. What good would it do, to express his displeasure on the innocent bystander?  
The clock on the wall above the chief of temple guard struck midnight. Both men were silent, when a priest came in.  
“Your Eminence, I found something of interest here in the books!” he announced jubilantly, as a dog waiting to be told ‘Good boy’ by its master.  
“What is it, Lyons?” Ignummon asked wearily.  
“You see, here in the revelations of _Brother Unurius_ , believed to be over two hundred cycles old, he explaineth and expandeth on subject of the chosen ones inexplicably drawing to each other, the strongest on the day of ritual, slowly weakening later.”  
“And what do you meanest to say by that?” Ignummon’s mind couldn’t really place that information anywhere yet.  
“I shall leave the thinking to Your Eminence,” he replied modestly, and deposited a book with a bookmark sticking out on his table, bowed, and made his exit.  
The men in the room were still sitting in their places, both trying to think of something to do, when they heard a commotion from downstairs, and the next moment, Leda the servant rushed in.  
“Your Eminence, His Majesty requests your immediate presence downstairs!” she stammered.  
“The throne room?” Ignummon queried, as he picked himself up from the chair.  
“No, Sir, princesses rooms,” Leda said, as she rushed back.  
“Assume your usual duties,” he addressed the chief of the temple guard, “And if anyone, anyone at all wants to see me – escort them to me immediately.”  
The head of the temple guard nodded his understanding, and followed the High Priest out. Ignummon went downstairs, and the closer he came, the more distinct the sounds became. Wailing, barked orders, sobs. He liked none of it.  
As he approached the princesses’ bedrooms, he was met by two of the Monarch’s personal guards, and was shown into the chambers.  
With a quick glance around the room he gathered all the information he needed, to understand the purpose of him being there. The Monarch was standing next to the window, occasionally issuing orders and throwing concerned looks bedwise. The source of sobbing sounds was the Queen Anna, with her back bent near the bed. And lying on the bed was what used to be princess Diane once. Her skin was blistered with boils, the face became disfigured with their sheer amount, and now looked like one giant tumor, leaking pus everywhere. She was the source of wails he heard, and her mother was constantly replacing soaked pledgets with clean ones.  
“It started,” Ignummon voiced his thoughts aloud. ‘Right, it was midnight not long ago,’ he decided to leave this one unvoiced.  
“Hearken, for I care not for the Gods or anything else! You have to save my daughter!” the Monarch almost shouted at him, and then, with more pleading notes in his voice “Can ye save her?”  
“If we finish the ritual, it will saveth her life. But her fairness is gone forever, I’m afeared,” Ignummon looked at the Monarch with sorrowful eyes, “I’m sorry I cannot offer you more than that.”  
“If I have to marry one of my daughters to some lowlife from slums even, in order to save the life of another, then so be it!” the Monarch said spitefully, “I didn’t want it at first, but if Gods leave me no choice…”  
And then it dawned on Ignummon. All the pieces fell into place, to form the craziest of theories. Of course! If the chosen ones were driven to each other, and princess was not moving that whole time, than it means he must have hurried to her, and there was basically only one thing that could stop him.  
“What did you?” he challenged the Monarch with a terrible look in his eyes, “On the night of the ritual?”  
“I-I have no idea what art thou talkest about…” the Monarch stammered.  
Ignummon simply intensified the look he gave him, and repeated “What did you?” Monarch at first looked at the High Priest with indignation, but then his look trailed back to the bed, and he sagged.  
“I… I gave the secret order to letteth anyone from slums into the celebration, and anyone claiming they had signs on them wert to be detained for a few days,” the Monarch admitted.  
“Do you realize, what did you?” the High Priest spoke in a threatening whisper, and pointed at the bed “You are the sole cause of this!”  
At these words Queen Anna raised her head at them.  
“Find him,” the Monarch started to walk closer to his wife, but stopped midway, turned back at Ignummon, and added “No matter what it costs you or anyone else.”  


#

  
As Marcius went home, Ferris rushed past him with a bucket of steaming water and an assortment of bottles.  
“Marcius! They let you out early? No time, no time, come quick, Alabaster is not well!” he jabbered, trying to steady his walk so as not to spill any water from the bucket.  
Instead of questioning Ferris, Marcius took the bottles from him, freeing him both hands to carry the bucket, and hurried to the four houses. Upon arriving, he noticed the Alabaster being taken care of by Everest, Alabasters skin color in some places changed from its usual white to beige, looking more normal now.  
“I am going to die, Everest,” he said in a shrunken voice, “It is a shame I won’t get to see Marcius before I go.”  
“You’re not going to die, there goes Ferris with medications and warm water,” Everest assured him, “Oh, and Marcius comes with him.”  
“But I am going to die. I can feel the rot inside me. Bury me here, under this tree, for I am too heavy even for the three of you to handle,” Alabaster didn’t turn around to look at the new arrivals, and when Marcius approached, he could see that Alabaster’s eyes were not brown, but milky white. He went blind.  
“No you’re not dying, you’ll get better, just you wait,” Everest’s voice was on the verge of breaking, and Marcius could see a tear trailing its way across his face.  
“I am here, Alabaster,” Marcius grabbed the giant hand in both of his, and squeezed it lightly.  
“Marcius, they let you go? Good. No sense keeping innocent in prison.”  
“’ere, the doctor said to put it on his head like so, and he should drink this bottle now, and this one in the evening,” Ferris explained, as he put a compress on Alabaster’s forehed.  
“Hey, this feels good…” Alabaster sighed with pleasure, as soon as hot wet cloth touched his skin, and grabbing the proffered bottle, with the help of his friends, guided it towards his mouth, getting up a little so as not to choke on the liquid.  
“It is the curse of the Gods, isn’t it?” Marcius whispered to the Everest, so no one else would hear, “The thing priests threatened us with for hundreds of cycles?”  
“Most likely, I can’t think of any illness strong enough to cut ol’ Al down like that,” Everest agreed.  
There they were, surrounding him, concern on their faces, a picture that was common everywhere across the Purple World just now. In an hour, the Alabaster was gone.  


#

  
The Monarch locked himself up in his rooms. The grief from the loss of his daughter was great, and the sounds of breaking furniture could be heard from inside.  
Ignummon was busy reading the church chronicles, trying to understand the difficult language as best he could. He never even thought that in only two hundred cycles their language evolved so much. His time was running out. He had no clue about finding the second chosen one. The giant white man, who came earlier, didn’t come for confession this morning, and by questioning the guards, nobody knew where he came from, and why didn’t he come today.  
“Hello, Your Eminence, am I interrupting?”  
He looked up. Princess Victoria was standing in the doorway, looking as splendid as ever. But there was something different about her. She had an aura of confidence about her, and the way she said those words almost made him answer negatively. And again, tiny gears inside his mind suddenly produced a worthwhile idea.  
“Sure not, com’st in,” Ignummon carefully watched her, as she sat down on a chair, not long ago occupied by the chief of temple guard.  
“What is going on, to people, I mean,” she pleaded, “Is it all because of me? If so, can I be of any help?”  
She didn’t speak like she used to, preferring simpler language, but speaking a lot faster. But Ignummon was not interested in the way she spoke, it’s what she said that caught his attention. Exactly what he needed her to say.  
“As a matter of fact, you canst,” he began, “I need you to find your destined loved one, and com’st back.”  
“But how will I find him?” she peered at him, seemingly afraid of the answer.  
“Only you can find him, just go where your heart and intuition leads you,” Ignummon said, getting up, “I will come with you…”  
As he got up, the tightly wound clockwork-like mechanism of his body and mind finally broke. His heart skipped a beat, his feet went numb. He fell back into his chair.  
“Change of plans,” he chocked through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the pain in his chest, “You don’t needst to bring him b-back. Just find a priest, any priest, and make him wed the two of ye.”  
She got up and started to approach Ignummon, with concern on her face, but he waved her away.  
“Avaunt! You can’t helpest me, not like this. If you really wantest to help, do as I said,” he managed, every word feeling like a dagger stab in his chest. He collapsed on the table, trying to make it easier to breathe by increasing outside pressure on his chest and thus limiting the amount of air he could take in with a single breath, and for now, it felt a little better.  
Princess Victoria left his room, outside of which two guards were posted before, but now it was a rather sorrowful picture of one guard clutching at his throat the other one beside him, clueless about ways of helping the first guard.  
As she walked the palace, she heard laments, cries of anger and sorrow. As she was about to exit the palace to the courtyard, a servant ran out of the door to her right with a loud yell, and proceeded to bang his head on the opposite wall, until it all became a bloody mess, and he slid, now still, to the ground.  
Hearing and seeing all this got her into a rather shocked and transfixed, dreamy state, just the one her subconscious mind need to guide her towards her destination.  


#

  
They stood near their houses. Two graves were in the middle of the yard under a tree.  
“How are you?” Marcius asked Everest.  
“Terrible, but if you’re asking about my health,” Everest paused, and sighed, “I’m fine.”  
“Should we say something?” Marcius inquired further.  
“They knew everything we can say now. It’s what encompasses the unsaid, that is what’s important,” Everest said, detached.  
“Guess you summed it up pretty well,” Marcius conceded.  
“Did I?” Everest sighed again, “Never had a way with words, unlike you, Mr. Librarian.”  
“It takes some hard times to reveal what is really inside a person, and in that way, you pleasantly surprised me,” Marcius looked him square in the eyes, “Do you have anything to drink? I think they would appreciate it.”  
“Jus’ a bottle of ale behind my bed somewhere, I’ll go get it,” Everest said, as he went to his house.  
Marcius stayed at the graves, looking down at them. One big and one small. They didn’t even have the money to put normal tombstones with names, they settled for rocks as big as they could carry together in their place.  
“Art thou going to standest there all day, or art thou going give me a proper greeting?” a voice, like a birdsong said next to him.  
He turned his head. A woman of imaginary, unreal beauty stood there, looking at him, with her dress looking like an apparition in the night. He instantly felt the desire to swipe her off her feet and give her a passionate kiss. He looked down at the graves again.  
“I wish you the best day,” he said the familiar words, and added “My Lady.”  
The words sounded as if they came from Alabasters mouth. And then he felt it rise in him. No, not the lust or desire. Boiling rage. It was her fault they died. If she would come earlier, if they would let him into the palace… But no. The rage was just the tip of the iceberg of bitterness he felt next. That was it, bitterness. The moment he went down into that pile of trash, the moment he saw the triangle on his neck, he had the capacity to believe in miracles, he could deceive himself that everything’s going to be alright.  
But now, when he stood on the grave of two of his best friends, he knew he would never be the same. How could he? It was a different Marcius standing there now, and this one didn’t believe in fairy tales.  
“Although I don’t know why would you need any special greeting,” he added scornfully.  
“Thou shalt not speakest to me like that!” she scolded him.  
“Why is that?” he inquired insistently.  
“Because I am of upstanding social condition!” princess Victoria was furious it seemed. Yet her eyes looked at him with a completely different set of emotions.  
“Of what society? That lies dying in the streets?” Marcius was surprised at his own spite, “And can’t you talk like a normal person?”  
“Thou art a terrible, ignorant man!” she turned away from him.  
“And my friends always told me I’m kind and knowledgeable,” Marcius continued cynically, “But guess what? They are dead now!”  
“And you blame me?” she turned back to look him in the eyes.  
“What else have I got?” Marcius almost shouted and looked around, only to see Everest standing in the doorway of his house, with the dusty bottle and cups in his hands, silently observing the exchange between them.  
“This bottle,” he answered Marcius’s question, walked to the bench, and proceeded to fill the cups with cheap ale. Marcius picked up his.  
“Goodbye, friends,” Everest drank his cup, and Marcius followed his example. Midway through the sip he felt something else inside of him. In his throat.  
“What are you doing?” princess Victoria asked, dumbstruck at what she saw. She dropped the ‘noble accent’ at Marcius’s insistence, but this was still definitely not what she expected.  
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Marcius looked at her with amusement.  
“No, I don’t,” she admitted plainly.  
Marcius came closer and touched her cheek with a thumb. She smelled lightly of tulips, just like his parents’ garden, where he spent a lot of time in his childhood.  
“You are the most delightfully elegant and beautiful thing I ever saw in my life,” he told her honestly.  
She blushed at the compliment, but became alarmed when his face, still smiling, gained a bluish hue. Marcius tried to cough, unable to breathe, as the tumor in his throat finally obstructed the airway, and, grasping all of his remaining willpower, sat on a bench, and grabbed it, his knuckles going white with effort. After a violent spasm, the flame of life died in his eyes.  
Overnight, the Purple World was no more.  


### 

THE END


End file.
